


wasted snapshots

by qanterqueen



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Eating Disorders, Mental Health Issues, dont read it if you think youll be triggered please, eventual taakitz but its not gonna be the focal point, everybodys here the gangs all here, its about taakos eating disorder, seriously shit is gonna get graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qanterqueen/pseuds/qanterqueen
Summary: Taako is fucking fine. He has been fine, is will be fine, and he is fine.But Taako is also in denial.





	wasted snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO. uh.  
> to make a long long story short, this is A. 100% projection and also B. something that I was _incredibly_ hesitant to post and something I'm very very nervous about. This fic is for representation, because not everything is the straight line we're shown.  
>  Please please please _please_ do not read this if you think you will be triggered.

It’s not a problem. It’s never been a problem before and it’s not a problem now. It’s never going to be a problem.

Taako shakes constantly. There’s a coldness in his bones that can’t be relieved, only helped by the undershirts and the tank tops and the sweaters and the scarves. It crawls up and down his arms and it snakes around his ribs and lands on the tip of his nose. His nails are blue and his fingers are weak and his toes are nearly always frozen.

But it’s not a problem. _It’s not a fucking problem_.

When he stands the world sways and his vision blacks out momentarily. The ground below him sticks to his feet but the rest of his body becomes detached, like a balloon on a string, wavering and _empty_. He can’t stand without something near him-- a wall or a piece of steady furniture (but never a person).

But it’s still not a problem.

He spends most of his time, even on “good” days, in his bathroom. His bathroom has a heat lamp on the ceiling and he’ll press himself against the sink counter and wait for himself to heat up every afternoon.

It _can’t_  be a problem.

See, Taako’s in denial about it all, but it’s not outright denial.

He knows what he has. He knows what plagues him. He’s not going to say it, not going to let those two words slip from his lips in _any_  volume or context, but he knows it’s there. He knows it separates him from everyone, he knows it’s horrible, he knows it’s vain and disgusting and, by association, makes _him_  vain and disgusting.

It’s not that he denies his condition. It’s that he denies the severity of it.

He’s not frozen to the core. His hands don’t shake. He’s just a little cold, is all.

_Everyone_  has moments where they black out from standing up, yeah? 

Maybe, he thinks, he can get away with those things. Maybe his justifications aren’t too farfetched. 

That’s where the rest of the denial is.

Normal people, he thinks to himself, don’t skip breakfast.

(Or maybe they do.)

But then, afterwards, they don’t skip lunch.

(… Or maybe they do.)

And then they don’t try their best to skip dinner.

(That one he’s sure about.)

However as time goes on it becomes harder and harder for him to remember what normal used to feel like (if such a thing as normal exists). He watches his friends-- _coworkers_ , rather, let’s not get hasty-- eat large breakfasts and he wonders how they just _do it_. How do they not mentally add up the numbers, rounding up to the nearest hundred? How do they decide how much to put on their plate, and how do they eat it that fast? How do they not _think_  about it?

(Truthfully, he knows how.

It’s because his fr-- _coworkers_ \-- aren’t vain. It’s because they know that all of their value isn’t in their looks. Because they’re not willing to starve to fit some dumb aesthetic that gets them nowhere. Because they know they deserve to eat freely, because these things that Taako counts don’t matter, not to anyone but him.)

He knows it’s pure and absolute denial when he says what he does, past being cold and disoriented, is _normal_.

He’s the last one to wake up that morning for training.

Taako wakes up tired, albiety cozy, under seven heavy winter blankets. The clock reads 8:00 a.m., and training started at 7:45.

He doesn’t panic about being late.

Taako wakes up and thinks, immediately, about breakfast. It was on his mind when he fell asleep.

He thinks about who is going to be in the cafeteria. Who’s going to watch him eat? What is he going to eat? _Is_  he going to eat? Is he too lazy to write the numbers down today? How much should he eat? Is it worth it to even get breakfast, to deal with that guilt all day? Is he going to work it off in training?

(Is it even worth it to fight?)

Yet simultaneously he is _not_  thinking about breakfast. He is wondering what type of fucked up life that he lives where he doesn’t care about anything else, doesn’t care about how late he is and how he’s let his friends down, and he doesn’t appreciate the comfort of the moment. 

The latter thought he can resolve quickly-- he lives a shit life.

The former he can’t resolve at all.

The questions circle his head as he throws back the covers and stands, swaying in the routine of it all. They grow louder as he moves and looks at himself in the full-length mirror at the edge of his bed.

Taako stands there. 

Turns to the side.

Encircles his wrist with two fingers and pushes them up his forearm to see how far they’ll go.

Holds his leg, just above his knee, and feels his fingers touch.

Lifts up his shirt. Counts his ribs.

It’s surprising that nothing’s changed since yesterday because hey, _bodies don’t work like that_.

But he’s still disappointed. He’s not dangerous. Not yet.

Deciding on something to wear takes ten minutes, which means that today is an _okay_  day. He can quickly rule out that tights and stockings are a no-go, but a pair of elephant pants and a long dress is okay.

Makeup is essential, even though he’s now twenty five minutes late. He knows he’s putting on makeup because he wants to, because the dark circles under his eyes aren’t flattering in the slightest, because everyone else wants him to-- but a whisper tells him that _this_  is an excuse that he can use. He’s already eaten breakfast and he was putting on makeup, that’s why he’s so late. (Who would even ask?)

The stream of thoughts continue.

They. Don’t. Stop.

When his makeup is done and he’s lacing up his boots he thinks about lunch. When he walks down the hallway he presses his wrist to his hip bone and feels it move. When he goes past the lunch room and doesn’t stop he thinks of his stomach, empty and _hurting_  like a void, he’s proud of himself. 

It’s fucking _tiring_.

He doesn’t remember a time that food _wasn’t_  at the forefront of his brain. He doesn’t remember a time that he just… didn’t have anything to think about. Every moment, conscious or not, voluntary or not, liked or not, there is _something_  on his head about it.

Some days the thoughts are loud. Some days he can’t focus. 

Some days are okay. Or, rather, okay for _him_.

Taako really hasn’t been okay for a while. But it’s a terrifying thought to think. So he doesn’t think about it-- he just thinks about the numbers.

“You missed training.” Merle rasps when Taako finally enters the arena. Merle and Magnus are on the floor, playing cards. 

Guilty thoughts run through Taako’s head. But of course they’re not about being late.

(He’s the skinniest of his friends, isn’t that cool?)

“Listen, old man, there were some flowers along the road ‘n I had to stop and smell them.” He crosses his arms and leans against his umbrella. His stomach is already starting to hurt. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, though.

“Who’s got flowers?” Magnus asks, bless him.

“It’s a saying.” Merle responds, dealing out another card. Taako has no idea what they’re playing and it looks like Magnus doesn’t, either.

“Oh.” 

“Well, we already got breakfast, so you’ll have to run and grab something quick if you want.” Merle continues, laying all of his cards out and flipping one over. 

Brilliant. “Done and done my dude.” The lie rolls off of his tongue and it’s sticky, coated in honey. There’s a string that connects those words to his mouth and as he lets them go he feels some tug, some uncomfortable break. He wonders if the others can hear it. They never do, to be fair.

“Awesome.” 

And they go back to playing cards.

A good few minutes later they’re kicked out of the training room-- _this is not the leisure room, play cards somewhere else please_ \-- and Magnus suggests they shop. The Director had been hinting at sending them somewhere and she told them yesterday to “stock up”. 

Which means three different things for the three of them.

Magnus looks for armour and weapons. He ends up buying face masks and canola oil and nail polish alongside a few bits of armour and weapons. He also buys a bag of Goldfish and starts eating it then and there in the store. It doesn’t touch the shopping bag at all.

Merle buys some healing potions and a rope. He browses the clearance aisle and comes away with a book, too-- something with a pastel cover and the picture of a smiling elven woman on the front. It might be a cookbook, it might be a planting book-- whatever it is, it was 70% off and rightly so.

Taako shops for granola bars.

Granola bars and sugar-free soda.

As he buys it he _knows_  it’s not useful, he knows there was food he could have bought that was cheaper, he knows all of this. 

But it’s clouded over by other thoughts. By wondering if one of the granola bars and the soda could be considered two meals. The box said it was high in protein, and while he doesn’t care much about protein, doesn’t that mean it gives the body energy? 

Taako doesn’t smile at the cashier and he forgets to tell them to _have a good day, too_.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
